


The Antithesis of Nobility

by InnerMuse, princessvicky01



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Dark, Evil AU, Graphic Violence, Heavy Angst, Multi, OT3, Psychological Torture, Swearing, Torture, Violence, preludes to torture, prisoner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9639500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerMuse/pseuds/InnerMuse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessvicky01/pseuds/princessvicky01
Summary: Cullen X Kelandris X Annabel OT3 fic co written by me and InnerMuseA VERY dark au centring on the two lady Trevelyan’s being held prisoner. Will Cullen and the Inquisition be able to rescue them in time?If you embrace the dark side and are after something a little different this might be just right for you!





	1. How good of you to join us

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic contains violence, angst and preludes to torture. Future parts will contain explicit torture and extreme angst - this is series is for mature readers only and not for the faint of heart! You have been warned.

The party had been entirely routine, entirely predictable, and entirely boring: Minor Lady So-and-so invites all her forgettable associates of middling rank to attend a soirée in honor of Who Even Cares, and would the Inquisition like to send an envoy? They'd all be so eager to contribute to the cause, if a suitable representative would but grace them with her presence— so of course the Lady Kelandris Trevelyan would be delighted to attend, etc., etc., and that was supposed to be the end of it.

Getting drugged and kidnapped had not been part of the plan.

That was what Kelandris assumed had happened, in any case – she woke up slowly, foggy-headed, with a vague memory of leaving the chateau ballroom and not much else. She at least had enough presence of mind to lie still and take stock of her surroundings. She was lying on smooth, hard stone, but she could hear rustling leaves and lapping water – a courtyard, perhaps? As far as she could tell, she was still fully clothed, but the rapier at her hip was gone— and rough rope encircled her wrists, binding her hands in front of her. Surreptitiously, she tested the knots and found them strong. Evidently, though, she was not surreptitious enough: a swift kick to the stomach interrupted her investigation and knocked the air from her lungs.

“How good of you to join us, Lady Trevelyan.”

Maker, could her captor get any more cliché? With a gasp, her eyes snapped open. She was indeed in a courtyard, sprawled on the flagstones in front of a bevy of guards and a young lordling who looked entirely too pleased with himself. She managed not to roll her eyes, instead fixing him with her most polite smile.

“Did you come up with that line all by yourself, or did you steal it from a children's play?”

Predictably, he stiffened, scowling. “I'd watch your tongue. You're in no position to be snide.”

Her smile didn't waver an inch. “I'm positively quaking in my boots. Shall we skip the small talk and get to the point? I suppose you want money, or favors from the Inquisition… Unbind me, and we can talk terms like civilized people. I will even show mercy, and not simply have you crushed beneath the iron heel of—”

All things considered, she should have expected a guard to slap her. It was not unduly painful, although it was incredibly insulting. “I think you misunderstand the situation you're in, _my lady_. There will be no terms.”

Dropping the polite mask, she arched a disdainful eyebrow, sneering delicately. “Is that how you treat a noble captive? If you're quite finished being barbaric, why don't you tell me what you want. There's obviously something, or you wouldn't have bothered taking me prisoner.”

She anticipated the second slap. She didn't anticipate how much harder it would be, nor how much it would sting. When she looked up again, the pathetic tripe was looming over her, trying unsuccessfully to look intimidating.

“What I _want_ is to knock you off your pedestal you arrogant little bitch. Parading around playing soldier with that slut of a paramour, thinking you're so much better than the rest of us—” This time he hit her himself, a vicious backhand across the face. “By the time I'm through with you, you'll be begging to lick my boots. _Both_ of you. And your whole blighted house, if I had my way—”

That was enough. He could insult her all he liked, but insulting Annabel was just too far. Kelandris lunged at him, bound hands scrabbling for the knife at his belt. Unfortunately, his thuggish guards were more competent than they looked – no sooner had she drawn the little blade than she was knocked, a heavy boot coming down on her wrists, sending it skittering across the flagstones. Hissing in pain, she twisted, kicking out at her attackers – but, heavily outnumbered and restrained, she stood no chance against them.

In the end, it took three of them to hold her down. The rest delivered a savage beating.

Eventually, the brat of a lordling called a halt. His goons forced her to her knees; despite her bruises, she lifted her chin to look down her nose at him. “Consider your offer of mercy rescinded,” she said coldly. Her captor’s face twisted.

“Take her down to the dungeons,” he snapped at the guards, “And teach her some proper manners.”

\-----

 

Tristan observed his captive. The so-called ‘Lady’ was still unconscious, bound hand and foot to a steel chair. He took great pleasure in admiring her like this, helpless, at his mercy. Crouching in front of her with a half-smile on his lips, he stroked her hand, almost tenderly. Kelandris was truly beautiful, even in these dank surroundings.

A loose strand of hair had fallen in her face and he brushed it aside before tracing his fingertips over her lips. Old wounds surfaced at the feel of them, their softness beneath his skin. He'd wanted to taste those lips, once, but she'd spurned him, showing the viper’s tongue she kept hidden behind a lady's smile. Her and her temptress of a distant cousin both. And then they'd dared to laugh when he accused them of leading him on, as if their coy glances and sly smirks could have been anything else.

Kelandris's most recent spiteful words resounded in his mind, and his eyes narrowed. It was time she learnt the price of her taunts. He smacked her violently across the face; her luscious lip splitting open with the force of the blow. Rising, he turned his back to her. He’d waited many years for his revenge; it would only be a few moments longer, now. He cracked his neck and flexed his hands, preparing for what lay ahead. At the sound of a harsh grunt behind him, he smiled.

“Evening, Kelandris,” he said casually. Rope creaked in response. “Don’t bother trying to escape, that chair is bolted to the floor, and those are the finest ropes money can buy.” There was a pause in which the only sounds he could hear were her ragged breaths and a distant drip.

“Of course they are. I'm sure you couldn't risk your captives fighting back.” Her voice dripped with scorn, just as it had when she'd humiliated him in the past. “Are you just a coward, or do you need the rope to get anyone to look at you twice?”

_Ah_. She was still determined to make this harder on herself. Slowly he turned on the spot, wearing a light smile and adjusting his cuffs. “I don’t suppose you even remember me, do you?” Methodically he stalked around her until he could run fingers through her hair. Vivid images of summer tourneys and winter feasts rose to his mind's eye, events hosted by the Trevelyan’s to show the Free Marches what its most self-righteous noble family had to offer...

“I don't keep a log of every vermin who crosses my path.”

Snarling, he clenched his fist, yanking back on her scalp to speak by her ear.

“But I remember you, and that tramp Annabel, quite distinctly,” he smiled coolly. “I recall tormenting young Lords was a favourite pastime of yours. The past, however, has a nasty habit of catching up with us.” He nipped at her ear then pulled back, gratified to see her twitch away from his attention as much as her bonds allowed. “I hope you like your new accommodations. You’ll be seeing an awful lot of them,” he proclaimed, gesturing around the underground stone cell. It was empty save for the chair, a small brazier, and a table of steel instruments, shimmering in the glow of a solitary torch. He eyed them fondly, already imagining Kelandris writhing underneath their sharp caress – but Kelandris, aggravatingly, seemed unimpressed.

“If you were hoping I'd turn into a trembling wreck at the sight of a sharp implement, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you.”

 Tristan turned to look at her, just in time to see her lick the blood from her split lip and give him a cold, hard smile. He gritted his teeth in frustration. How was she still so self-assured?

 “And while we're spouting pithy one-liners, here's another one, just for you: do your worst,” she enunciated deliberately.

 “Don’t worry,” he returned, eyes glinting. “I intend to.” Strolling to the table he proceeded to pick up the various tools in turn, twisting them in his fingers and the light before setting them carefully back down. “But there will be plenty of time for that,” he muttered. He passed his hand over the flicker of flames, feeling the heat scorch him briefly. “Maybe I’ll return when you are feeling a little more... appreciative.” With that he spun, his fine tailored jacket flaring behind him. “I do hope you enjoy your stay,” he tossed over his shoulder. The heavy iron door scraped closed behind him, the bolt sliding into place with a solid thunk. Some time alone to contemplate her situation would be just what dear Lady Kelandris needed.

 -------

 

Two hours later, Kelandris was starting to regret that last taunt. She ached all over, thanks to the guards and their “hospitality.” Her face stung; her split lip stung even more. A stray drop of blood had trickled over her chin, itching as it dried. Annoying as they were, though, such things were undoubtedly mere inconveniences in the face of what was to come. It was not a pretty thought.

Four hours later, she concluded that boredom, fear, and anger made for poor company indeed. Being stuck in one position had gotten very old, very quickly. She had nothing to do but pull at her bindings and study the ominous array of implements laid out in front of her. She had no names for most of them, and could only guess at their functions – but, Maker, she really did not want to find out. She probably would, anyway.

Five and a half hours later, the torch went out. Alone in the dark, Kelandris whimpered.

Eight hours later, she shouted a stream of blistering profanity to the uncaring stones. Her wrists and ankles were rubbed raw; the metal chair’s discomfort had morphed into outright pain. She almost wished that slimy bastard would come back – hating him would at least give her something to focus on, something besides her growing thirst and distorted memories of what lay on that table. But no footsteps disturbed the oppressive silence. Nothing did, save for her own ragged breathing.

_Maker, though darkness comes upon me_ , she recited, too many hours later, _I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure_.

_I shall endure_.

_I shall endure_.

It was two days before anyone came for her.

\-----

 

Annabel plucked the report from Cullen’s hands, receiving a frustrated huff which she ignored as she perched on the corner of his desk.

Her eyes scanned the parchment taking it in with surprising speed. “It says,” she drawled. “Blah, something about how boring the party was and another scandal for Leliana… Oh.” She paused, standing and moving off.

Cullen watched with knotted brows pinching his eyes. After a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat to draw her attention back.

“Oh, sorry— it says that she's visiting the Fowlers, a noble house, who have pledged a considerable amount of support. She requests my presence, something about needing a little excitement,” Annabel smiled mischievously then returned the report. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be invited next time,” she said, kissing his golden curls affectionately.

She heard him grumble at her back as she strolled from the room and only turned momentarily to blow him a kiss before going to get ready.

 

Cullen had insisted two guards travel with her. She had complained but accepted their presence to ease his mind, as always. She hated to see him worry.

Chatting away to the men riding behind, Annabel wasn’t even concerned if they were listening or not as she walked her mare at a leisurely pace. She didn't hear the arrows over her own voice until they punched through her guards’ throats. They let out simultaneous garbled screams, and dropped.

She spun her horse just in time to watch them fall limp to the ground sending their mounts panicking. Swearing under her breath, she unsheathed her sword. They were good people and deserved better than an arrow through the throat. “Show yourself!” She spat.

For a few moments, the surrounding forest remained eerily quiet. And then over a dozen archers emerged from the dappled shadows to encircle her. _Oh crap…_ Her eyes darted from masked face to masked face, rapidly calculating her odds. They weren't good.

“Disarm,” came a clear command. Annabel’s grip faltered on her blade, but she refused to release it.

“What’s going on?!” she demanded. Her horse twitched nervously, reflecting her racing heart; she managed to keep the fear from her face only by wearing a scowl.

“Disarm!” With the statement came another arrow, and the barb slammed into her mare’s neck. Throwing its head, the animal screamed and reared wildly. Annabel gripped tightly and brought it back under control. They had already demonstrated they were more than willing to kill innocent people never mind her, the Herald, and her favourite mount.

“Fine!” Reining in her horse she patted it reassuringly, then dismounted, throwing her weapons unceremoniously to the ground as she went. “Calm down—” her sentence was broken as she was grabbed roughly, hands forced behind her back and bound. Pushing her forward she responded with a shoulder barge, repaying their rough treatment in kind. She kicked out at the one who pulled the ropes too tight. If they thought she would go quietly, they had a thing or two to learn about her. Her knee caught one solidly in the groin, and she smirked at the guttural noise he let out.

A sudden pain rang through her head as a sword pommel connected with her skull. The hit vibrated down her jaw and made her very teeth rattle. She felt her knees give way under her, weakly the world swirled around and then went black.


	2. I'm not going to beg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen X Kelandris X Annabel OT3 fic co written by PrincessVicky01 and InnerMuse
> 
> Part 2 of 4 - Lord Tristan makes his new prisoners feel very welcome indeed.  
> A VERY dark au centring on the two lady Trevelyan’s being held prisoner. Will Cullen and the Inquisition be able to rescue them in time?
> 
> If you embrace the dark side and are after something a little different this might be just right for you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This fic contains violence, graphic torture, swearing and angst. This is series is for mature readers only and not for the faint of heart! You have been warned.

“Good afternoon, Kelandris.” Lord Tristan’s silky greeting drifting through the cell door’s peephole jolted her from a restless half doze. Her head snapped up, heart pounding. “How are we feeling today?”

“You little shit!” The epithet slipped out before she could censor herself. She was too on-edge, too wrung out from the endless waiting… she jerked uselessly against her bonds as the door behind her opened with a screech of steel on stone. Light flooded the room, making her flinch.

"My, such language. Aren't you supposed to be a lady?”

She gritted her teeth, forcibly regaining control of her temper. She would not let him get to her. She refused to give him that satisfaction.

“In any case, I have someone here who's just dying to meet you – I'm told he is the best in the industry.” A burly man in dark overalls followed her captor into the cell, eyeing her impassively. A shudder ran down her spine but she hid her fear behind a mask of disdain.

“I should have guessed you'd be afraid to get your hands dirty. A pleasure, _Ser_ — I always enjoy meeting the scum of the earth.”

The noble brat spun from where he'd been lighting the torches. “I've also been informed that if you scream loud enough, he'll let you have some water,” he snarled, sounding peeved. “Isn't that right, Sid?”

Any possible retort she could’ve made was lost as her body suddenly reminded her just how long it had been since she'd had anything to eat or drink. She coughed and the lordling smiled. Her eyes followed him warily as he wandered over to the laden table.

“So many choices… What do you recommend? You're the expert, after all,” he mused, glancing at the silent “Sid.” Instead of an answer, the grizzled lackey – _torturer_ – simply handed him a scalpel. He chuckled lightly and wandered around behind her. Her skin crawled as he passed out of her field of view; she couldn't stop her tremor as she felt the blade at her throat. The touch of steel was not enough to break the skin, but it sent a message just the same: she was at his mercy.

The feeling of foreboding was only intensified by the sight of Sid stoking the brazier and setting irons to heat amidst the coals. The anticipation was terrible; pain, at least, she could fight through. Fortunately, though, her jailer had shown he could be goaded.

“You're supposed to actually _use_ the pointy end.”

As expected, he took her bait, seizing her at the back of her scalp and swiping the blade across her cheek. Blood welled up and dribbled from the wound; the pain came a moment later, a white hot streak of it that flared as he ran his thumb over the cut. Kelandris hissed a breath through her teeth, and his thumb was replaced by— Andraste, was that his _tongue?_ Sick bastard...

“Perhaps I will give you a scar to match your whore,” he murmured. The scalpel ghosted across her upper lip. “I recall that being scandal of the month, as if the bitch didn’t deserve it. I should have given you something to remember me by, as well.”

Maker's breath, he was _that_ piece of scum? She could place him, now; he was an older, more dangerous version of the entitled brat she remembered. Trenton? No, Tristan. He'd only gotten more pathetic with time, it seemed, and apparently gone insane as well. As if sensing her derision, his hand snapped suddenly down, burying his little blade in the meat of her thigh. She jerked, clenching her jaw tightly. _I will not scream_ …

“But we’ll have all the time in the world to get reacquainted,” he crooned, yanking the weapon free with an agonizing twist. “The Inquisition believes you’re having a wonderful time at the Fowlers, you see. It’s amazing what a well paid spy can get their hands on – even the Inquisitor’s personal seal.”

 _Oh, no. No_. At his words, her hopes for a timely rescue dwindled rapidly to nothing. The sensible thing to do would be to swallow her pride and try to minimize the damage while holding out hope that the Inquisition's own spies would catch on quickly… but she would sooner die than grovel to a worm like him.

“Pity they can't steal you some honor. You seem to be lacking any of your own.”

With a snarl, Tristan slammed his knife back into her thigh, a fraction of an inch away from the fresh wound. "You're very good with your mouth, aren't you, Kelandris? I shall have to remember that for later." She went rigid, whining, and he smirked, digging the blade in deeper before twisting once again and pulling it free.

Before he could continue, the lurking brute tapped him on the shoulder, and he rose, surrendering the scalpel then sauntering over to lean against the wall. She tracked him with a furious glare, teeth bared. A moment later, though, her left hand was seized in a rough grip, and she transferred her glare to the looming Sid. He didn't even look at her. Instead he casually pried up her index finger and bent it back, farther and farther…

When bone cracked, she flinched, her other hand clenching on the arm of the chair, her eyes squeezing shut in agony. With hardly a pause, her middle finger was lifted up as well…

“I'm not— not going to beg— _fuck!”_

An evil chuckle rose from the corner in time with the second _crack_. Kelandris barely had time to process the bolt of terrible sensation before both broken fingers were cruelly grabbed and _wrenched._ The pain doubled, and redoubled, and she thrashed, once, twice—

When it stopped, she went limp, panting. Her tormentor scraped his stool back, but any hope she might have felt at the gesture was crushed when he grabbed a handful of thin metal spines from the table. Their purpose became apparent when he settled down on his haunches and reached for her foot. Kelandris curled her toes, tightly, useless though it would be. Sid merely forced them flat against the floor, studying them clinically and blithely ignoring the furious stare she directed his way.

“Enjoying your place as a spoiled brat’s lapdog?” She gritted out. Tristan stirred in the corner, but the brute before her was undeterred. In one terrible, methodical motion, he jammed the first of his needles beneath her biggest toenail. A lance of pain blazed all the way up her calf. _Oh Maker, Andraste's flaming **ass** — Breathe. Breathe. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure_. Mustering all her strength of will, she took a breath, and another. She had suffered far worse wounds in battle, guarding Annabel's back as she worked to seal the rifts. She hadn't faltered then, and she would not falter now. This was no different, really— and with that thought she forced back her pain and her thirst and her impotent, helpless rage…

...And then she looked over at Tristan and _grinned_ , imagining her blade going jolt-crunch-scrape through the center of his chest, and the sorry bastard actually flinched at the look on her face. The filthy coward wouldn't break her, and neither would his pet. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

After that, she hardly batted an eye when half a score of the little needles ended up beneath her toenails; or when three fingers of her other hand went _crack, crunch, snap_ ; or when the mad little lordling stalked across the room to slap her, repeatedly, snarling in frustration. It would take more than pain to vanquish the Lady Inquisitor Kelandris of House Trevelyan.

 Tristan had another backhander prepared when a bang sounded at the door. Pulled up short, he turned, scowling. “What?!”

“You asked to be informed when your new guest arrived, my Lord,” came a polite voice.

The scowl turned to a smirk, he slapped Kelandris quickly across the face, then kissed the reopened wound on her cheek. She barely twitched, expression still disconcertingly savage – but that would change soon enough, he was sure.

“As much as I have enjoyed our time together, I have another lady to welcome,” he cooed while smoothing back his hair. “So will leave you in peace, for now.”

Silently both men moved to leave, Tristan only pausing before pulling the door closed, to turn and smile at her. “Don’t worry, you won't be alone for long,” he chuckled, screeching the door closed to speak through the bars. “Like I said, it's amazing what an Inquisitor’s seal can get you these days.”

 

 

It only took a few minutes alone for her bravado to wear off. There was no enemy in front of her, and nothing to distract her from the pain anymore. Or from her burning thirst, or from his ominous parting words… by the time Kelandris heard his footsteps echo back down the hall, she was trembling, her breath coming in harsh pants. When the door opened, she raised her head slowly, filled with dread, and let out a broken moan: she recognized the limp figure being dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

It was Annabel.

“Not happy to see your little whore? And after I went to so much trouble bringing her here,” Tristan sauntered in, dropping a coil of rope and slamming the door once again.

“No,” she whispered. His smug grin widened.

“ _No_ ,” she said again, louder, as he knelt and started binding her lover far too tight. “You want to torture someone, you torture me, you bastard. If you touch her, I swear I will _end_ you!” It was the wrong thing to say. Tristan smirked up at her and rolled Annabel over roughly.

“Let's see what she has to say on the matter, shall we?” With that, he kicked her solidly in the side.

Annabel came to, grunting at the pain. The first thing she noticed was that she was naked and bound, hands behind her back and feet at the ankles. As her awareness grew, she noted the freezing ground against her skin, its damp scent sticking in her nose. Even more alarming was the unfamiliar male voice in the room. With no idea who she was shouting at, where she was, or what was even going on, she replied with the only words that came to mind: “Fuck off.”

“Feisty already?” Her mystery captor tsked. “Where are your manners?” Another kick landed in her stomach.

She grunted, gasped for air, and yelled again. “I said fuck off.”

The man grabbed a fistful of her hair. The world jolted as he bashed her forehead into the floor. "I don't know what you see in her,” he said, speaking over her garbled cry of pain. “She's certainly pretty enough, but her language is awful."

“Annabel…!”

Her eyes popped open in shock at the strangled cry. “Kelandris…” she breathed. By the Maker, he’d taken her too? Instinctively, she writhed against her bonds, noting the blood and the weariness on her lover’s face – what had they done? A fleeting burst of panic filled her. She had to do something, and pulling at the ropes clearly wasn’t helping. She forced herself into stillness, and adopted a husky purr, hoping against hope that her feminine wiles might help. “Untie me, and I can _show you_ what she sees in me.”

“Funny. Your bitch, here, said much the same thing. She was rather less persuasive… perhaps I shall keep that in mind when I'm done with you both. You can see how well negotiating worked for her – but perhaps a demonstration is in order?” her captor said, cocking his head to the side to meet Annabel’s gaze with a smile – and abruptly she recognised him. The so-called ‘Lord’ Tristan. That expression was one she would remember all her life: the same look he’d given her when she lay on the ground in a pile of agony after he had slammed the edge of his shield full force into her mouth many years ago.

She recalled their teenage meetings – the boy who’d lost repeated contests to her, who’d tried to place his hands on her and gotten a slap for his trouble, who’d once pinned her to the wall and tried to kiss her until she kicked him in the crotch. Now it seemed that little horny rat had become a man. Or at least a pile of man-shaped slime.

Standing, he strode casually over to Kelandris, grinning. He grabbed her hand, and she let out a stifled cry: several fingers stuck out at odd angles, obviously broken. “You’ll have to do... better than that…” she panted.

Annabel’s eyes flared with blue fire. "The only bitch I see here is you!" She pulled at her restraints again, all but thrashing.

“You two do like your insults, don't you?” Tristan drawled, just before he stomped on her lover’s foot making Kelandris cry out.

"Like you could even handle one of us. Now bring your little prick back here, untie me, and fight like a man for once in your pathetic life!"

“Annabel, don't,” Kelandris croaked – trying to protect her. “No need for both of us to be in pain—” Her warm words were broken by a grunt, as the bastard punched her solidly in the gut.

"No,” she states firmly. “We're in this together - like always.”

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he mocks, delivering another almost gleeful kick into Annabel’s side before he leaves.

 

 

The door closes behind him and Kelandris smiled weakly at her love, but the expression quickly devolves into a grimace. "I know we are. But I can't stand the thought of hearing you scream…” She closed her eyes, drooping. “Probably won't matter. The scum has it out for both of us..."

With the scum in question gone, the pain from her recent injuries ebbed into Annabel’s consciousness. A trickle of blood was drying under her nose – when did that even happen? She poked at it with her tongue, mumbling. “Little shit. Don’t worry, Cullen will come…” she added before trailing off. She wasn't sure she believed it herself – but she needed to hear it just the same. Closing her eyes, she pictured the faint tender smile he’d given her as she left. Surely he was keeping tabs on them? For once she was grateful that he was a worrier.

"Just think about what we get to do to this Lord once the Inquisition arrives," Annabel continues allowing flickers of daydreams to fill her mind. It distracted her from the throbbing in her head.

“Already have been,” came the weak reply. Kelandris sounded so exhausted… Worry tightened in Annabel’s chest.

“Stupid question, but… are you okay?”

“Fine,” her lover growled after a short pause. “I adore bits of metal under my toenails, I'd get my fingers broken for fun… I've been fucking tortured. Haven't had a drink for two days— d'you _think_ I'm okay?!” Kelandris fell silent with a shuddering breath.

Fire blazed from somewhere deep inside Annabel. It was one thing to mess with her, but the woman she loved? No. Enraged, she thrashed, every muscle pulling tight and straining against the ropes. But Kelandris wasn't done – she continued, in a much smaller voice, “Sorry. I'm sorry… everything hurts. I'm terrified, for both of us…”

A bolt of panic shot through her, throwing her emotions into disarray. Kelandris was _never_ scared. Annabel's heart raced, and her skin prickled with heat despite the grimy stone floor. "I'm going to fucking kill him… then Dorian can bring him back and I'll fucking kill him again,” she growled, flexing in her bonds.

“You'll have to get in line… Careful with the ropes – they won't budge. I've been trying, they just tear up your skin…”

Annabel had suspected as much, seeing the band of bloody blisters around Kelandris's wrists – but she couldn't help trying one last time before settling with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry…” her voice soft. “We didn't know…”

Before Kelandris could reply, two sets of footsteps echoed outside. She swore viciously instead. “Shit! The little scum, you can bait, but he's got—" her voice broke; Annabel felt a pang of alarm. "He's got a fucking torturer – the bastard doesn't even look at you—”

The door screeched open once again. Twisting her head Annabel spat on the first pair of shoes to appear. Tristan sniffed, stepping forwards to wipe his shoe on her face which she  jerked away from as best she could. “It's about time you both learned some respect... Sid, why don't you introduce yourself to Annabel?”

Strolling over to his other captive he amused himself tormenting her. He stroked her hair with mock tenderness, pausing every now and then to jar her injuries, apparently just for fun while Annabel was occupied with torment of her own. Sid pulled her into a vicious hogtie, despite her violent protests, she may not be able to stop him, but she saw no reason to make it easy for him.

With her sufficiently subdued, Sid meandered over to the table. Leather swished as he picked up a whip and tested it, sending an ominous _crack_ echoing through the cell. Annabel’s muscles pulled tight as his heavy footfalls returned. This was going to hurt. Squeezing her eyes shut, she locked her jaw while he planted a boot on her back to hold her in place.

She had no control, no say over what happened. Her only option was to beg. _For all the good it will do_ , she thought grimly. The very idea of it grated against against her pride. But that pride was sorely tested, as leather cracked across the bottom of her feet.

She screamed, from somewhere deep and primal. Involuntary tears seeped from the creases of her eyes. Her scream subsided to a hissing stream of curses, but the whip slashed down again, snapping the air, tearing the soles of her feet and wrenching another scream from her throat. The intensity of the pain was beyond anything she’d ever known.

A third lash. Then, finally, the torturer stopped and glanced at Tristan. Wearing a smug grin, the lord patted a trembling Kelandris on the cheek. "See, Kelandris, isn't that much better than your little stoic facade? Oh, and speaking of which..." he grabbed a waterskin from his waist, and dangled it tauntingly in front of her. "Thirsty?"

Kelandris's eyes tracked the sloshing liquid. She didn't want to look away from her love, but her body screamed at her, desperate for something, anything to drink… Swallowing hard, she nodded. In response to her silence, though, Tristan merely narrowed his eyes. He turned his attention back to Annabel, stalking across the room to spank her newly abused soles. He received a blind cry in return. “Ask nicely,” he demanded, petulant.

“Fuck,” Kelandris whispered. If it were only her in the room, she might stick it out. But there was more at stake, now – and her body rebelled at the thought. At this point, she was in mortal danger. So instead of defying their captor, she gave into her desperate need and grated out a hoarse, "Please."

Chuckling lightly, Tristan unscrewed the water skin to dribble a little on Annabel's head. "That wasn't very convincing... Can you do any better, Annabel? Go ahead and beg for your stubborn little bitch lover."

Teeth gritted, Annabel held back a snarl. She panted, trying to calm her trembling muscles. She was relieved that the whip had stopped, but the stinging pain continued even so. The cold water provided another brief relief, soaking her sweat riddled hair, although the comfort it brought was short lived. She knows Kelandris needs it far more than her. It takes the will of every single fibre of her being to force the next words out of her mouth. "Please, my lord, she needs water..."

He laughed, delighted. "You see? Everything becomes much more pleasant when you're polite." He splashed another dribble onto Annabel's back. Kelandris made a desperate, choked noise – but finally, he let her drink.

"Thank you," she said quietly, looking at Annabel, who inclined her head as best she could – no thanks were necessary.

Tristan glowered at them both, apparently unhappy with the target of that gratitude. "Well, how about we do something with the lovely Annabel's hands, too, hmm? I'm sure Sid, here, has some good ideas... Unless either of you think you can convince me otherwise?"

Snorting at his question, Annabel retorted defiantly, "You’re a braver man than most.” The mark on her hand had flared with her screams, and now glowed ominously, bathing the dungeon in shifting emerald light. "Do you not see the magic? Or are you just stupid?"

It was a bluff, but she fixed her glare to add conviction to her flat tone. The Anchor’s sparking hum already sent pulses up her arm; the thought of adding pain to the unpleasant sensations was horrifying.

“Definitely stupid,” Kelandris grunted. “He's proven himself a coward already.”

Hesitating the Lord’s eyes narrow and he glances to Sid and the mark on the Herald’s hand. “See what happens,” he states moving to take a step behind Kelandris.

  
Impassive, Sid moves back in and grabs Annabel’s thumb, breaking it with a sudden sharp crack.

The anchor flashes, erupting to fill the space with light along with her cry as fierce pain combines with the usual pulse to jerk her arm. "You mother fucker," she shouts. "I swear by the Maker and Holy Andraste you will regret every single damn second of this - both of you!"

Tristan waits a moment longer, but when nothing dramatic happens, he chuckles to himself. "Seems there won't be any trouble after all... What would you like to do with this little harlot's fingers, Sid?"

The silent torturer puts his whip back and studies Annabel’s hand before promptly picking out a couple thumbscrews to show Tristan who grins evilly. "Oh, I have always wanted to play with those... this will be fun, won't it, ladies?"

Annabel has no idea what those things are but based on his grin it won't be good. "What's wrong with you?!" She snaps, hoping perhaps, to delay whatever is about to come.

Picking a finger, Sid secures the little metal device, and gives it a couple twists…she cries out, face contracting in pain, her hand trying to pull away while the mark crackles and spits. "What do you want?!"

Crouching Tristan moves to stroke Annabel's hair. "This is _exactly_ what I want." He glances at Sid who tightens the vice a little more. "You and her, right here, all mine to play with— not so stuck up, now, are you? No more playing high-and-mighty, as if you had any right to deny me anything. You will regret every taunt, every giggle, every vile word that ever fell from your deceiving lips— I am a Lord of the Free Marches! I _will_ have the respect I deserve, if I have to pry it inch by inch from your stubborn, worthless flesh!" He's yelling by the end of his tirade, punctuating his last word by slamming her head into the stone once again.

Breathing hard, he stands up and adjusts his coat fastidiously, regaining some composure before stalking over to take up his place against the wall.

"You are no lord," Kelandris growls. "You know nothing of nobility – calling you dirt would be an insult to the worms!"

Tristan stares at them both coldly for a moment, then suddenly smiles. "Such a pity. But I expect you'll see the error of your ways soon enough. Sid, why don't I take care of Lady Annabel while you see to the lovely Kelandris? I'm sure she's been missing you terribly." He saunters back to Annabel and crouches once more, stroking her arm, then down her rear, making her shudder.

Her head is pounding from the repeated bashing, the pain almost blinding but she forces her eyes open to look at him then darts them to Kelandris. Maybe his hand was offering them a way out?

"Perhaps, we’ve been a little hasty, my lady," she all but purrs returning her attention to him. "It's not like we ever gave him much of a chance to show his true worth," Annabel raises a half smirk. "Although it's impossible to truly show us when we're tied up like this," she says in deep hushed voice.

She has never met a person she couldn’t charm. As much as she loathed herself for saying these things, things that made her skin crawl, she would do just about anything for the chance to get these restraints off. If she could just have her hands, she knew she could take him, Sid might be difficult but Tristan she could break like a twig. Surely Sid would fall in line if she held his Lord hostage?

Sid sets up the brazier full of irons in the background as Tristan shakes his head mildly at her. “Oh, I'm no fool. No matter what the arrogant shrew over there thinks.” Leaning back he scrapes his nails along the wounds of her feet, earning a muffled cry. “Shall I start crushing another finger, or would you prefer to watch her burn?”

Laying with her face against the floor a wave of despair sweeps through Annabel. If her charisma and grace couldn’t help her, then what could? The helpless emotion is too much and she twists violently, biting back every desire to spit at him again.

“I can take it,” said Kelandris in the background, her voice surprisingly strong. That wasn't happening. Her love had been through far too much already.

"Fingers, please, my lord,.."

“Annabel!” Kelandris shouts and jerks against her bonds again with a gasp. “You don't have to do this…”

With a smug smile Tristan gives the first thumbscrew a final twist and chuckles at the awful crunching noise. Another wave of pain claws its way down her arm. "Wonderful! Leave the coals for a moment, then, Sid – Annabel would like to do this all over again. The other hand, this time, I think." He says, tugging on her mangled finger.

Her hand flashes angrily. "I...am...not.. your dear.." she pants.  .

Tristan merely smiles and moves out of the way for his lackey. Kelandris stares at her lover in anguish as he prepares another of the torture devices. “Look at me, love. We're in this together, remember?"

Catching her expression Annabel feels the world fall out from beneath her. If the strongest person she has even known is upset and scared - what chance does she have? None. Absolutely none. She nods, almost pitiful, trying to find comfort in Kelandris's tone.

"It's going to be fine," the lie catches in Annabel’s throat but she continues. "I love you. It’s going to be fine - he'll come, he will." Her thoughts are just as jumbled as her words as she squeezes her eyes shut in preparation.

"Found yourselves another plaything, have you? Too bad this new dog of yours can't stop me from doing this—" scowls Tristan as he tightens the little vice viciously.

Annabel cries out in pain once more. Tears seep freely, she is beyond caring to hold them back. "He will come.." she says again. "...and rip you apart, like the pitiful nug you are!"

Sniffing disdainfully Tristan gives a couple more twists, and turns back to his henchman. "Are the irons hot enough yet?"

 

The torturer had been tending the brazier in the background. Heavy-gloved hands worked methodically, stoking the coals and turning over each poker in turn. At Tristan's question, he pulled one out, examining the wickedly-glowing end. It was nearly white-hot; he nodded and strode over to Kelandris, unfazed by Annabe’s cursing.

Kelandris swallowed, eyes fixed on the burning poker. _She_ had noticed the stream of profanity. Her lover’s panic made her heart ache. "Don't watch," she said, voice hard, defiant mask back in place, "I won't let them break me." She didn't get a chance to repeat herself before the blazing metal was lowered onto the thin skin of her wrist.

Immediately, she thrashed in her bonds, jaw clenching around a scream. The pain was incredible – she felt her face contort with the effort to remain quiet. It wasn't long before it became more than she could handle; a keen escaped through gritted teeth. That was when Sid started rolling the metal poker slowly up her lower arm. She almost gave into the cry roiling in the back of her throat – but Annabel was still staring at her from the floor, devotion in her eyes, and that was enough to strengthen her resolve.

Pulling the iron away Sid tossed it back in the fire. Kelandris gasped with relief when the poker left her skin, only to let out a dry sob as the pain hardly decreased. Tristan chuckled sadistically, tracing his fingers up Annabel's arm, matching the line of Kelandris's burnt flesh. Both women went tense all over, jaws clenched, when Sid drew another iron from the fire.

He hovered over Kelandris, drawing out the anticipation, and then he pressed it against her collarbone. He held it there for an agonizing moment, before rolling it down towards her breast. The second he moved the poker Kelandris yelled, a harsh sound of mingled pain and rage, and threw her weight forward in a sudden headbutt to his arm. The metal rod went flying; she settled back and lifted her chin. Her gaze seethed, imperious and diamond-hard, every inch the furious noble. They would have to do better than that if they wanted to see her crack.

Snarling, Tristan sprang to his feet with Annabel chuckling mildly in the background, until he backhanded Kelandris viciously across the face. Sid's reaction was more subdued – he simply handed the Lord more rope and together they wrapped it around a writhing Kelandris'. Pinning her arms they then secured her legs. When finished, Tristan yanks her head back by the hair. "You never told me you liked it rough," he whispered, his breath hot as he licked up her ear.

Raggedly Kelandris laughed, testing the new bonds. "No? You have no idea… but I can show you just how rough—" she lunged as she growled the words, tearing her hair out of his grasp and catching a chunk of his cheek in her teeth.

Staggering back he cried out. The hand he'd clamped to his face came away slick with blood. "Your bitch is going to pay for that," he snarled. Eyes blazing, he grabs the next poker from Sid and strides back to Annabel.

"No, fuck!" Kelandris spat out a mouthful of his blood, thrashing as hard as she could, hard enough to leave streaks of crimson under the new ropes. She was howling in earnest, now. " _Fuck!_ Damn it, you fucking bastard! It's me you want!!"

Annabel observed the apparent blood lust in the Lord’s eyes as he seemingly ignored Kelandris. _Great, just great_ ,was about all she could think before he lifts her up by her hair. She’s given just enough time to spit a curse, before he lays the heated iron in the crook of her neck. The resulting, shrill, scream bounces wildly off the walls. As it echos, Sid moves behind Kelandris, a fresh poker in hand, and impales her shoulder with the white-hot spike at its tip.

Kelandris's yell was just as loud, born of fury and frustration as well as torment. When she ran out of breath, she gasped for more, and Sid took the opportunity to twist the poker in her shoulder; pain eclipsed anger in her second shout.

As Sid ripped the metal from her flesh and Tristan dropped Annabel's head unceremoniously to the floor with a wide satisfied smile. Moving around Annabel's prone form he grabbed her by her broken hands; a strained, exhausted cry fell from her lips at the rough hold. Planting a foot firmly against the small of her back, Tristan dragged the tip of his poker deliberately down the length of her spine. Her muscles spasmed, agony finally consuming her pride as she screamed for him to stop, please stop, make it stop…

For Kelandris watching her love suffer was worse than any abuse they could have dealt her and Tristan chuckled at the raw emotion in her face. "You don't seem to be enjoying this," he taunted. "How about this – if you beg, nicely, I'll stop. If not…” He lifted the hot iron and let it hover idly over Annabel's torn feet.

Kelandris responded without hesitation. “Please.” It was nearly a sob. “Please, stop… I'll say whatever you want me to say…” For her own sake, she would have never groveled. Not willingly. She would have fought, tooth and nail, for every scrap of stolen dignity. But for Annabel… if it would spare her further torment, she would debase herself ten times over.

Tristan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that.” He lowered the poker a fraction and Annabel whimpered at the heat.

Kelandris's eyes darted frantically between his face, the hot metal, and Annabel's exhausted expression, her lips peeling back in a snarl. “Please!” She spat the word, then sucked in a breath, visibly forcing herself to regain some semblance of control. The rictus of hate smoothed from her expression, and she met his gaze, trembling only slightly. "Please, my lord Tristan," she said quietly. "No more, I b-beg of you."

He smiled, almost graciously, and released Annabel's hands. She landed face-down once again with a solid thud. "That’s better." Stalking over to Kelandris, he ran a hand tenderly up her thigh before setting the cooling poker aside. “I suppose we should leave you two harlots to catch up properly anyway.” He glanced at Sid, and then they left, pausing to let the torturer release Annabel from her hogtie. Her weak groan was drowned out by the screeching slam of the closing door.

 

Silence reigned for a heartbeat, and then Kelandris whimpered her love's name. “Oh, Blessed Andraste, I'm so sorry…”

Annabel exhaled heavily into the earth. She had no words to express how amazing it felt to be freed from the hogtie and finally regain a small bit of freedom. "Don't worry," she mumbled, face still buried. "I would have done the same." Turning her head and puffing the hair from eyes she gazed at her, then smirked in her usual manner as best she could. "I'm just sorry you didn't get more of his face."

Kelandris lets her head fall back with a groan. "Fuck," she muttered. "Wasn't worth it. Half your pain's going to be my fault..."

Though she was beyond weary, she found the strength to reply. “It’s his fault, not yours.” With an effort, she looked her love square in the eyes. “Never, ever, blame yourself for what that little shit does, do you hear me? Because I really don’t have the energy to get up and shout it at you...”

Meting her gaze, Kelandris knew her little huff could almost have been amusement under better circumstances. "I love you, you know that?"

Somehow her love summoned up a half smile, borne of pure affection. "Don't worry, I know."  She closed her eyes, her expression almost warm. "I love you too." As fatigue took over, she whispered a prayer, softly. "Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide..."

"...I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the beyond." Kelandris whispered back, equally weary. They joined together to finish the verse, somehow finding hope in each other, despite the depths of their despair.

“For there is no darkness in the Maker's light, and nothing He has wrought shall be lost.”

At last, as their ragged voices faded, the pair slipped down into unconsciousness.

 

\---At Skyhold ----

 

_ Ambassador Montilyet, _

_ I must confess that your recent inquiry leaves me mystified, I have not seen Inquisitor Trevelyan since Lady Surleaux’s soirée last week. My house would be honored to host both her and the Lady Herald, but we have not yet had occasion to extend such an invitation. I hope this response causes no undue alarm among you and yours; I assure you, we seek no animosity with the Inquisition. You are welcome to call upon the modest resources of House Fowler if they would be of aid in resolving this misunderstanding. _

_ With respect, _

_ Lord Blythe Fowler _

 

Cullen threw the letter onto the war table, expression thunderous. “Someone is playing us,” he declared, fingers clenching around the hilt of his sword.

“That much is obvious.” Leliana eyed the discarded parchment speculatively. “The question is, who? And why?”

“No… The more important question is  _ where are they?”  _ The Commander's voice had dropped to a dangerous growl. He had little patience for these political machinations at the best of times; when his ladies were involved, though… “I’ll send a squad after Annabel, and another to this Lady Surleaux. See if they can pick up Kelandris's trail—”

“You can't just send soldiers barging into someone's estate without provocation!” Josephine sounded horrified.

“The Inquisitor and the Herald both going missing isn't provocation enough?!”

“Let me look for them first, Cullen,” Leliana interjected smoothly. “My scouts travel faster than your men, and may notice more. Besides, Josie can send more letters, as well – the search will go easier if we ask nicely, first. We don't want to turn the region against us.”

“Of course – I believe I have the party's guest list on my desk. I will draft some more inquiries as soon as we're done here,” nodded Josephine.

Sometimes he hated when they were right. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he scowled and conceded the point. “Fine. But if we don't get some answers in two days time I'm tearing the countryside apart. With my bare hands, if I have to.” There was no way in the Void he would sit idly by while  _ both _ the women he loved could be in danger.

“That won't be necessary.” Leliana sounded a lot more confident than he felt. “Have faith, Commander. We'll find them.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments welcomed :) Not expecting much 'love' for this as it is different to our ‘normal’ writing and gets darker as it goes along… *evil cackle*


	3. I'd tell a thousand lies to save you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen X Kelandris X Annabel OT3 fic co written by me and InnerMuse
> 
> Part 3 of 4  
> Love is tested to its limit as the torture of Kelandris and Annabel intensifies but can the Inquisition find them before they break?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This fic contains violence, graphic torture, swearing and angst. This is series is for mature readers only and not for the faint of heart! You have been warned.

**** Annabel wakes groggily from a dead sleep thanks to the churning rumble in her stomach. Her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth and she smacks it in disgust before fully remembering where she is. "Kelandris?" Her first thought is for her love, needing to know she’s alive and also there.

Slumped in her bonds, head lolling, Kelandris twitches at her voice. "'M’ here… How're you doing?" she slurs. "Too much t' hope that you're better than me?"

Annabel snorts in relief to hear her. "Been better..." she mumbles, trying to move but quickly giving up. She can just about make out Kelandris’s silhouette cast by the faint glow of the anchor. "Would be better still... if you didn't take your time to reply like that...you trying to give me a heart attack?" she muffles a laugh in place of tears. A basic defence mechanism she had learnt long ago to help hide wayward emotions.

"Don't see what's so funny... At least you get to lie down."

 

Distant footsteps mark the return of their tormentors.  On the floor Annabel can practically feel them approach. The door scrapes, unbearably loud, making her winch, squinting she hopes against hope to see the guards boots, maybe with more water? But no, the sight of Sid's distinct heavy leather soles drains all the life from her. Light floods the room as the Lord enters behind with several guards.

Tristan smiles down at them both, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Hello, ladies. I do hope you've enjoyed your rest. You'll need your strength today..." he chuckles at his own joke as the guards file in. They cut the rope on Annabel's ankles and drag her to her feet, and carefully untie Kelandris to do the same. Kelandris is too stiff and cramped to put up much of a fight, but they keep a tight hold on her anyway. She's vaguely gratified that Tristan seems wary of getting too close.

Annabel hisses with raw pain as her feet touch the ground. Trying to balance on parts that aren't torn is near impossible. When she sees Kelandris hardly fighting back the embers inside her flare, and she elbows the guard holding her. Thrashing, she flings herself forwards as more guards press in. Kicking out her feet leave useless blood smears on their uniforms, while she screams in rage and pain. "Get your hands off her!"

At her shout, Kelandris tosses her hair out of her face and bares her teeth. She struggles harder, sore muscles protesting violently, but to no avail. The guards haul the pair of them out into the hallway and over to the next room, with occasional punches to knock them off-balance when they get too feisty. This dungeon is much bigger and much better stocked, crammed full of all manner of nefarious equipment. Torchlight flickers over dark wood and jagged metal; the chains dangling from the ceiling cast ominous shadows on walls littered with blood stains.

Annabel's thrashing stops on sight of the cell. It seemed that things could get worse and her natural cheerful disposition was crushed under the weight of sheer dread. "You can't..." she mumbles. The looming pressure is too much and she roars, lashing out. "I am Lady Annabel of House Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste and I demand you release us at once!" 

The guards wrestle her onto one of the tables and strap her down. Arms, legs, chest – when they're done, she can barely squirm. Tristan gives a deranged little giggle. "I can do whatever I want. Who's going to stop me? Your inquisition isn't here. Is Andraste going to smite me down, ‘Herald’? I don't think so." He finishes securing her himself, tightening a strap across her forehead, and stroking her cheek gently, she replies with a snap of her teeth. An empty gesture but all she can manage.

She pulls the new restraints until she’s physically trembling with the effort. The anchor flares, if ever a human had crossed the line into demon surely this was it, yet it crackles but does no good. "The Inquisition will come and they’ll bring the might of the Maker with them! You will curse the whore who gave birth to you once they're through!" 

Undeterred Tristan ignores her to watch Kelandris, fighting frantically, straining to get to Annabel – or maybe just to throttle him. One guard staggers away, clutching at a broken nose; another yelps as a flailing knee connects with his groin. Finally, though, they manage to slam her to her knees against a metal crossbar, locking her wrists in place. She twists to look over her shoulder, snarling, but her eyes widen when she meets Annabel's terrified gaze. "Stay strong, love," she croaks, "We will endure this. We  _ will _ ."

Now Annabel is fully immobilised fear rushes up, clenching her chest and every muscle, her eyes dart to Kelandris. "No matter what just know that we win - because he can't break us!"

Sneering, Tristan digs his nails into the burn on her throat. "Weren't you listening, little tramp? I can do  _ whatever I want. _ Sid!" The other man is standing by another brazier at the side of the room, a lot grander than the last one and housing a small bubbling cauldron.

Sid equips thick gloves while Annabel watches from the corner of her eye. That can't be a good sign. Whatever is in the pot hisses and spits as he lowers a ladle. Carefully, he walks around Kelandris. Her eyes widen in horror when she sees what's coming, and then the torturer dribbles molten oil onto her shoulders to run in patterns down her back.

At the first touch of scalding liquid, Kelandris keens, spine arching. The pain is like a living thing, pulsing as it burrows deep under her flesh. No matter how she writhes, she can't stop it from trickling slowly down, sprouting blisters in its wake… A single drop rolls down her front, between her breasts, leaving a tiny trail of stinging burns; most, though, cascades over the vulnerable expanse of her back. A thin sheen of oil lingers on her skin, holding in the heat. The agony is ceaseless, inescapable, unrelenting; like claws down her spine. And when his ladle is empty, Sid returns to the terrible cauldron, dipping up another boiling spoonful.  _ Maker, no! _

She can hear Annabel snarling like a wild beast behind her. The anger and fear in her lover's voice shake her more than the dreadful anticipation. Were they doing something terrible to her, as well? Or was she, herself, the cause of her distress? “Annabel?” she says, hoping both to reassure and be reassured.  _ I can endure this, I can _ , she wants to add, but when she tries to glance over her shoulder it pulls at her burns, twisting and stretching the abused skin. Another tidal wave of pain crashes over her, and instead all that comes out is a cracked whimper. She sounds desperate, weak, and Maker, she  _ hates _ it—  _ No. No, I am strong, I  _ must _ be strong! I will  _ not _ break! _

Annabel is barely holding herself together, rage and terror combining into an entirely new emotion which she cannot name. Bile stings in her throat as her heart hammers loud in her ears, demanding she act. Commanding her to fight. She thrashes, bounds pulled so tight they cut flesh wherever they hold her. "Kelandris! - I...it..." Her quick tongue has deserted her while her breath comes sharp and shallow. "It's going to be fine." She lies. To Kelandris and herself. She lies, because her mind can’t cope with the alternative. "Though all before us is shadow, the Maker will be our guide..." Another bitter lie.

“We shall not—  _ fuck! _ — not be left to wander th-the drifting roads of the— of the beyond…” The words help steady Kelandris through blinding pain. A second cascade of oil leaves its marks on her back; it was near impossible to get the words out without devolving into wordless yells – but somehow, she completes the verse. It's a triumph, a tiny victory amidst all the horror, achieved only through Annabel's support. Together, they could get through this.

Annabel recites the prayer along with her love, calming her own heart and lungs as she did before battle, loosening muscle groups in turn until she could hear over her pulse once more. She only hoped the familiarity helped Kelandris.

Focusing on the rhythmic cadences of the Chant Kelandris squeezes her eyes shut. Her rekindled thread of defiance flares a little brighter as they speak, despite the ever-increasing agony. They'd be alright. Just as long as she could stay strong, for herself and Annabel. Pain is nothing; pain would pass. Love is everything.

For all her resolve, though, there's only so much her body can endure. She's braced for another dribbling pour, for seemingly endless torment in slow motion. This time, though, the torturer simply flings the contents of the ladle at her. Boiling oil splashes across her chest and shoulders in a sudden, nigh-unbearable onslaught. For a moment, everything else is overwhelmed by pure, unadulterated agony.

Kelandris screams.

That's it. The scream shatters the calm Annabel had been desperately trying to build. Her mind has returned and she shrieks at the Lord. "You have us, and this?  _ this _ ?! is what you choose to do!? No..." she growls, defiant, refusing to believe it. "What do you really want. Our love? Our devotion? I would treat you as a god if you just stop! Please!" She was not above begging, not when it came to those she loved. Nothing came above those she loved. Not being the Herald, not the Inquisition, not the greater good, not even the Maker himself could trump her loved ones.

Hearing her desperate pleas Kelandris squeezed her eyes shut, tears seeping from beneath her eyelids. The frantic edge to Annabel's voice is terrifying. She should never have to debase herself like that, especially not for her.

Tristan scoffs. "And you expect me to believe your sudden change of heart? When you've done nothing but spit and curse and pine over  _ her _ ?" He gestures angrily at Kelandris and begins to pace. "I want you to regret every second you ever spent mooning over each other when you could have had me instead!" He whirls on Annabel. "Tell her you never loved her. Tell her you love  _ me _ . Tell her you've always loved me, you  _ will _ always love me, you'll never love anyone else except me!"

  
“Annabel...” Kelandris slurs, heart aching, “D-don't give in. S'just pain. Doesn't matter how much I scream... still love you, and C-Cullen— just need t' wait for him…”

“I'm sorry,” states Annabel. She lets it hang for a moment, hoping Kelandris knows it’s for her, and that Tristan's delusions let him believe it’s for him. She buries her feelings as deep as she can to keep her voice steady. “Kelandris was just a little fun. An experiment. I never knew you had true feelings for me. If I had known…” she sighs. “Things would’ve been different. I always did like you Lord Tristan, hence the teasing – I guess… I guess I just never knew you felt the same?” She does her best to look at him.

Below her, Kelandris's heart turned to ice.  _ No _ , she thought. It's pack of lies. She knows that. She  _ knows _ it. But hearing the words from Annabel's lips… After all these years together. After so much. 

A lump rises in Annabel’s throat as her insides squirm, trying to prevent what she knows she must say. “I never loved her, not truly, or Cullen. If you let her go, me and you could start fresh, somewhere new,” she forces her lips into something resembling a light smile.“I'd like that, Tristan. I love you.”

“Annabel!” Kelandris chokes, feeling like her frozen heart has been ripped from her chest. Her lover had caved, had  _ broken _ , and it was all her fault.  _ Never blame yourself for what that little shit does _ , she'd said, but how could she not? Annabel was giving in for her sake. She'd failed her. If she hadn't screamed— if she'd just been strong enough—

Tears have formed in Annabel's eyes and begin seeping down her face. "Just, please, let her go," she begs. Nothing else mattered. He had given her a chance to save her love and she would take it. She would bleed it for all it was worth, for the smidge of hope it presented. Pride was long gone, erased by the overwhelming need to have Kelandris free, happy, safe. 

Tristan smiles slowly, coming back over to brush a thumb tenderly across Annabel’s cheek, wiping away a tear. "There, there, my dear," he croons. "I knew you'd see sense eventually." He glances at Kelandris. "Does that make you jealous, Lady Kelandris? Not so enamored of your little slut, now, are you?"

Silence. Kelandris doesn't trust herself to speak – if she opens her mouth, she'll start begging for Annabel's forgiveness.  _ Take it back, _ she'd say,  _ We'll be alright, I'll be alright, let me bear this for you, please, I'll do better this time _ … She's quiet for long enough to raise Tristan’s suspicions. His eyes narrow, nails digging unconsciously into Annabel's face. "I asked you a question, Kelandris."

She wrestles with herself for a few heartbeats, until despair hardens into fury. And then, “I love her,” she says, quiet as death. “I love her more than anything or anyone in this world except for Cullen, and I love him more than anything or anyone else except Annabel. So you can go  _ BURN IN THE MAKER'S FIRE, YOU FUCKING SHIT!”  _ The sudden roar tears at her throat and reverberates around the room.

"Kelandris!" Annabel snaps aggressively, before the echo even fades. It might have been the first time she’s ever raised her voice to her. “Give it up! He wants me…” The next words lodge in her throat, stuck behind a sob. She forces them pass her lips with tears streaming down her face. “...And I want him.” Once she's said those ugly words, though, her eyes dart to Kelandris, burning with love she couldn't fake before returning to him. “Please… now just let her go, let us start again.”

He has no chance to respond, Kelandris is already yelling again. “Tristan, you despicable mewling quim!” Annabel's rebuke had struck her like a lash, but she would rather die than see her lover forced to submit to such a worm. “You can't have her! I don't care what you do to me, if you want to rip my fucking flesh from my bones, I will shove my broken fingers down your throat and suffocate you with your own blighted liver before I let you take her from me!!”

Tristan had observed Annabel carefully as she spoke, his expression flickering from suspicion, through anger and smugness, before finally settling on an ugly sneer as he rounds on Kelandris. “Ripping your flesh from your bones?” He repeats icily. “That can be arranged. And as for you, you sniveling bitch—” he pins Annabel with a furious glare. “You will pay for your lies. If you think I will let the two of you play me again, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Eyes widen as Annabel realises all too late her efforts have failed. She’d degraded herself, she’d spoken the most horrific lies she could imagine and it hadn’t been enough. All her words had done was made things worse. Bitterly she curses herself. How many times had she be warned her mouth would land her in trouble someday? How many times had she scoffed in reply? Would she never learn? It didn’t matter, she realises heavily, she had let Kelandris down, nothing else mattered.

“You’ll never understand,” she mutters, feeling foolish for daring to hope he might. “Our love is unbreakable and you’ll never experience that, because you're not worthy of it,” she says, her voice snide and bitter. Whatever hope residing in her faltered in the wake of despair which now swept through.

 

Sid moves around the back of Kelandris, in his usual grim silence, uncoiling a leather whip. He cracks in the air by her head, testing it and tormenting her; both women flinch. Blessed Andraste, that was going to  _ hurt _ . Without ceremony, he snaps it across the blisters of her back. Broken skin tears away in a brutal stripe; to say it's  _ painful _ would be like provoking a High Dragon and calling it an inconvenience. For a moment, Kelandris can hardly breathe – and yet, she does not scream. She bites straight through her lower lip, choking on an unvoiced cry and a mouthful of blood… but she  _ will not _ scream again.

The sound of the whip is enough to make Annabel jolt and curl her toes. She would sell her soul to a demon if it would end this… but there never seemed to be one around when you needed it. “Kelandris—” she cuts herself off. What could she possibly say? What if she just made things worse?

Between strikes, Kelandris whimpers, shaking her head violently at Annabel – if she opens her mouth to speak, she knows her tenuous control will shatter.

Annabel could not bare it. Unable to escape she shuts her eyes tight and turns inward, to happier times, and slowly an idea forms. “We’ll wake, either side of Cullen, panting from this nightmare. He’ll stroke our hair, the way he does, even though his own curls have fallen loose. Eyes full of concern, he’ll tell us it's ok, it was just a bad dream. We—”

Her words are cut off by the whip lashing down again, followed by a desperate sob. Annabel flinches, but continues her litany undaunted. “We will snuggle closer, arms wrapped over each other, warm and peaceful. I’ll tenderly kiss your lips and tell you I’m sorry, I don't know what I was thinking. Cullen will chuckle that I'm apologising for a dream and kiss us on the forehead…”

Another terrible  _ crack _ . Annabel's voice wavers, tears streaming from behind closed eyes, far beyond caring about showing weakness. “...Warm and soft, I will pepper you with kisses, ignoring the roll of his eyes as he lays back with a sigh. I will whisper my devotion to you, to him, to no one else. You will wipe away my tears and I will squeeze your hand. I will joke we should’ve known it was a dream when I shouted at you – as if I ever could!” She chokes back a stifled laugh that's more like a sob. “And the three of us will pray: though all before me is darkness, I will not be left to wonder—”

Tristan interrupts her stream of comforting words with a snarled “Enough!” He’s staring at Annabel, fists curling and uncurling, practically green with envy. "Leave her," he barks at Sid. "I want to shut this whore up." Kelandris twitches at that, letting out a strangled noise of protest. Better the torment be hers than Annabel's...

A jolt of fear opens Annabel's eyes and sets her heart racing, but, stubborn as a druffalo, she sneers. “Fuck you!”

Tristan smiles nastily. "I wouldn't waste your breath if I were you. It will be in rather short supply soon." Behind him, Sid has coiled up his whip and stalked across to the counter again, busing himself with something unseen that makes a sloshing sound.

The noise is new and unwelcome. "What—" Annabel's words are cut off abruptly, as a dripping cloth lands on her face with a wet  _ smack _ . Spluttering, she tries to shake her head, but her restraints make it impossible, suddenly panic begins clawing up her throat. 

Kelandris has sunk deep into a haze of agony, but her lover falling silent mid-sentence is alarming enough to rouse her. Unclenching her jaw with a whine, she rasps, "Annabel?" There's no answer from behind her, just the splatter of falling water. Heart pounding, she wrenches her head around to look, despite the pain. Sid is standing over her love, slowly emptying a jug of water over her face... "Annabel!" Kelandris cries out again in anguish.

Water floods down Annabel’s throat, filling her empty stomach. Within moments she begins to gag, spluttering on bile and water. She writhes against the bonds, panic consuming her. There’s no air! Her lungs demand she breathe, but she can't. Every nerve inside her screams. Overwhelming primal instinct sends her body into frantic spasms. Her heart runs wild, pounding blood resounding in her head – she has to to hold on! Her chest heaves as she coughs, throwing liquid out only for it to be forced back in. Her lungs burn as she chokes, retching; the world darkens, fading to black around the edges, until she finally goes still, unconscious.

When Kelandris hears Tristan snap, "Don't kill her, you fool!" she slams hard enough against her manacles that something goes  _ snap _ in her wrist. The horrible sounds she'd been making— Blessed Andraste, please let her be alright!

Sid lifts the cloth from Annabel and punches her in the stomach, winding her hard enough to force the water from her saturated lungs. Coming to she throws up water in a violent gush. Nothing has ever felt sweeter than her first drag of air. Coughing she spits out even more, her lungs jagged but grateful. 

She’s only given a few seconds of respite before Sid covers her airways again. Annabel slams her mouth shut this time and tears at the bindings. Squirming her face she wishes she could close her nostrils, but she can't and water stings as it trickles in.

Terror grips her core once more. Gagging, coughing, struggling, she thrashes, pulling muscles and breaking skin. She can't breathe and nothing else exists. A voice in her head is screaming -  _ she must breathe! _ The demand resounds in her skull, until finally she can't resist any longer – but her desperate gasp brings water instead of air. The way her lungs burn, it may as well have been fire.

When Annabel starts to choke in earnest, they remove the cloth. Tristan strokes her arm soothingly while Kelandris flinches as she sputters, whispering her name once again. "Maker, though darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light..." she grasps at another verse of the Chant, hoping desperately that her love will hear and be comforted, the way she herself had been. 

Tristan casts her an annoyed look before easily talking over the weary mumble: "Nothing to say, Annabel? Now you see the price of your lies..."

Annabel's throat is raw, pain radiating from deep in her clenched chest, still retching, eyes watering as consciousness struggles to return. She can faintly hear Kelandris and the familiarity brings a degree of comfort. She can barely speak but knows her love must be worried, she must say something. Tristan is looking at her, almost adoringly; she manages two croaky syllables. "Fuck...you..."

He huffs, sickeningly soft expression instantly turning hard. "I think we've heard enough from you, slut." He grabs the wet rag and stuffs it roughly in her mouth. She protests as much as her restraints allow, not that it does any good. She stares Tristan down with seething look so cold it could kill, though her streaming eyes diminish the effect.

He glances at Kelandris, smirking at the bloody welts and blisters coating her back. "I'll let you enjoy the quiet. Leave the lying harlot with some entertainment, won't you, Sid?" said Tristan before he sweeps out of the room. 

Sid looks between them, considering, then grabs a pot and hangs it from one of the dangling chains above Annabel which she carefully watches with dread. He empties another jug of water into it, where it promptly starts beading from a crack in the bottom. He adjusts it until drops land squarely on her face and then follows his master out.

 

The first drip of water jars her with panic, her lungs greedily sucking air in response.  _ Maker not again _ . Her mind whirls, threatening to spiral into panic, but it's merely an annoying drip. Frowning, she sets about trying to loosen the gag. After considerable effort she manages to shove the rag out of her mouth. Immediately, she sucks in a ragged breath, deeper than she ever knew possible. Every drip on her face makes her flinch, still, but at least she can breathe properly, now. Once her chest is calm enough, she hoarsely calls out, "Kelandris?"

Her lover jerks in surprise, then hisses in pain. "Love?"

Relief floods Annabel. "Praise the Maker—" her body cuts her off with a wracking cough. "I… I'm so sorry..." she whimpers. She tugs against the restraints, only bringing fresh pain – she needs to hold her, to look her in the eyes and make sure she knows the truth. "I saw a chance…" she murmurs. "I tried… I'm so sorry— I love you. I had to try..."

Kelandris swallows, struggling with tears of her own. She's so exhausted, and she hurts so much...  _ Never do that again _ , she wants to say, to beg:  _ Please, I love you so much, I would bear  _ **_anything_ ** _ to never hear you renounce me again... _ It would be so easy to just let go, to let Annabel comfort her. The thought fills her with self-loathing – her lover was in far too much distress already; she would never forgive herself for adding to her burdens like that. So instead she shoves aside her pain, locking it away with all the rest. She couldn't afford to be weak anymore.   
"I know," she mumbles instead, "I love you too."

The words ease Annabel’s guilt a little. The dripping is becoming increasingly aggravating but at least it washes the tears away. She is exhausted to her very core, she has torn muscles she didn’t know she had and has ripped open the bloodied ribbons of her feet. After an extended silence there is only one question on her weary mind. "You will forgive me, won't you? I had to try..."

The only acceptable answer to that question is ' _ Yes, of course _ ,’ but Kelandris can’t force it past her lips. Not without some sort of reassurance. Not with  _ ‘I never loved her, not truly’ _ still bouncing around inside her head.

"I... I want to, I will, but I need a promise— I can't stand to hear that again. I know you were just protecting me, but I c-can't— I'd rather take the torture—" She bites her tongue to stop the flow of words. It seemed she wasn't strong enough to reassure Annabel properly, after all.

"You know I would never...could never... mean those things I said. I love you and Cullen more than anything. I would do anything...that’s the point. You have to understand - I had to! What choice did I have?!" Annabel demands. 

"I know! And I know it hurts to watch me suffer... But you have to trust me when I say I can bear the pain! What I can't bear— even knowing it's lies, is to hear you talk like that. Promise me you won't do it again. Please." She closes her eyes, tears leaving tracks down her face. 

Annabel's eyes sting with the effort of new tears. "He might have let you go..." even as she mumbles it she knows it’s stupid and wrong. As if he ever would. "... I lied for you Kelandris! I'd tell a thousand lies to save you...I'd...." 

She’d heard the strain in Kelandris tone and bitterly realises she is trying just as hard to convince herself as her love. Two parts of her lunge and lash out, ripping chunks from each other and almost tearing her clean through. Truthfully she would say the worst things imaginable and degrade herself further still if it might save Kelandris. Equally she couldn’t bare to be the one to hurt her.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask; if I wasn't so s-selfish..." Kelandris whimpers.

“No, don't be sorry! It’s my fault for being  _ fucking  _ stupid, grasping at anything that looks like hope...I promise. I won't fall for it again. I won't hurt you like that again - I won't say those things ever again."

"Not stupid! Never stupid..." Kelandris can feel herself losing consciousness as her injuries catch up with her. "Thank you... S'alright. Love you. Will always... forgive you..."

"I love you too. I'll make it up to you, when we get outta here," Annabel murmurs. "I always do." Kelandris is silent. She can just barely make her out, slumped in her chains with blood running down her back – passed out from pain and exhaustion. Annabel's eyes flutter closed as well, only to snap back open as another wretched drop plops down onto her nose. It takes far too long for oblivion to finally claim her.

  
  


**Skyhold**

“We found them,” Leliana said without preamble, stalking into the war room. There was no need to ask who she meant. “They're alive.”

Cullen relaxed for the first time in days. “Thank the Maker!” he exclaimed. At the sight of the spymistress’s bleak expression, though, he sobered, his burgeoning smile fading before it began. Trepidation replaced his relief, settling cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach. “...But?”

“There's no way to say this kindly,” she began, shadowed eyes hard beneath her hood. Bracing himself, Cullen nodded, and she gave voice to his worst nightmare. “They're being tortured.”

He heard Josephine gasp, but it was distant, barely audible over the pounding of his heart and the echo of phantom screams in his ears.  _ No. No!  _ Someone said his name. There was a bang; he realized he'd punched the table when his hand started throbbing.

_ “Where?”  _ He grated. His voice was harsh in his throat. He didn't like that voice – it was the way he spoke on the bad nights, when he woke up from dreams of blood, tasting bile and demon ichor, shouting  _ Kill them!  _ at the top of his lungs— He shook his head, violently, as if he could dislodge the memories from inside his skull, and forced himself to take a breath. Falling apart wouldn't help. He tried again, a little steadier. “Where are they?”

“A hunting lodge in the foothills of eastern Orlais. My agent got close enough to eavesdrop on a patrol, but it was too well-guarded to infiltrate alone. With a few more scouts, though—”

"I'm going.” He would hear no alternative. He glared from Leliana to Josephine and back in open challenge, daring them to question him. The spymistress hesitated, drawing a breath as if to speak, but Josephine stepped in before she could do so, dark eyes flinty.

“If there were ever a time for excessive force, Leliana, I believe this is it.”

She acquiesced without complaint. Ambassador and Commander exchanged a tense nod of understanding, and the three advisors bent over the map to plan their assault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments welcomed :) Is it evil enough yet?


	4. You are my weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final part of this dark AU fic  
> Cullen X Kelandris X Annabel OT3 fic co written by me and InnerMuse
> 
> What sick plans does Tristan have for the two ladies and will the OT3 be reunited?

 

Whistling a cheery tune Tristan opens the cell door. "Good morning," he offers his greeting as several guards file in. Wandering to Kelandris he lifts up her chin. "I must say, my lady, you are looking a little worse for wear. Have you been getting enough sleep? That pesky slut’s not been keeping you awake has she?"

Kelandris blinks blearily up at him, half-conscious. Her eyes flicker and she twitches, briefly considering snapping at him, but immediately discards the idea. Moving is too painful, besides it's not her who would pay for it. Instead she simply bares her teeth in a bloody, wordless snarl.

Smug, Tristan smiles. "Don't worry my lady, I'm sure we can fix that problem." Annabel curses at him and he glowers. "You and your clever foul mouth..." he tuts. "Lets see what wonderful things I can get it to say next hmm? After your lady is given a nice long rest, of course." Guards move in and he stands clear as Kelandris is carefully released from the stock and into fresh restraints.

She puts up a cursory fight, but a couple blows across the ravaged skin of her back easily pacify her. They subdue her quickly, twisting her arms up cruelly behind her and binding her in place. She buries her teeth in her own lip again to keep herself quiet; between the trickle of blood running down her chin and the rage crackling underneath her savage glare, she looks about ready to eat their captor alive.

“Where are you taking her!? You can't—”

"I can and I will!" Tristan cuts across Annabel furiously. "And if you want her back, you'll do what I say.”

This nightmare is only getting worse, despite Annabel’s flaring desire to beg, she knows what she needs to say as the guards begin dragging her love off. "I keep my promises.”

Kelandris catches a final glimpse of her love as she's manhandled out the door. Tristan is standing over her, prodding at the mangled fingers of her glowing hand. She wants to call out, but by the time she finds her voice she's already been hauled into the corridor. The guards deposit her in yet another dungeon cell – Sid is already there, waiting.

He grabs her, roughly, and forcefully stuffs her mouth with a cloth before binding it in place with coarse bandages. A guard is busy moving various devices until finally a trap door creeks and lifts open in the floor. Shoving her tender back Sid forces her towards the pitch-black hole.

Kelandris balks, but her struggles are futile. She stumbles and falls, convulsing, as ungentle hands make contact with her injuries. And then there's a disorienting blur of motion and pain— until suddenly there's a slam, and then... nothing. Total darkness, and the press of stone all around her. Something scrapes nearby – the same jostling of equipment as when she was dragged in – and she realizes, in utter horror, she can still hear everything going on above her prison. When she yells, the sound is swallowed by the gag. She knows then, with terrifying certainty, that sooner or later, Annabel would end up in that cell, and she'd be powerless to comfort her.

There’s a rhythmic banging above her: the sound of someone nailing shut the door. Panic grants her strength as her prison is sealed – she will not be trapped like this without a fight! Her muscles protest violently as she flings herself against the door— and promptly falls back, yelling unheard curses. Blood dribbles from the new puncture wounds marring her side; as if the tiny hole wasn't already horrific enough, the underside of the door is spiked.

  


Back in the other room, Tristan glares down at Annabel. "Now I can finally have you all to myself." He nudges her broken thumb and smirks. "Perhaps if you ask nicely, I'll just play with you here on my own instead of bringing you to Sid when he's done with your bitch. What do you think?"

Dragging Kelandris away was about the worse thing they could’ve done to her. She couldn’t do this alone, couldn’t live with the worry of not knowing where her love was or what was happening to her. The Lord’s smug face however turns her bubbling fear into solid anger. "Perhaps, if you ask nicely I won't roast you alive when we get outta here!" She wants to reach out, slam him into the ground and pound until there is nothing but bloody paste left. Her body is so feeble though and she can barely strain the restraints.

"Threats do not become you. But go ahead, keep spewing vitriol, if you wish – I'll make note of your better suggestions to try out later on Kelandris." His fingers wander over her stomach. "So much pretty, soft skin; all mine, now..."

Annabel’s glare is cold. "It’s not a threat, it’s a promise," she feels a shiver run up her spine at his touch, her lips curling in disgust. "And it will never be yours, ‘coz I will never be yours! Not the part that matters! You're nothing but a petty perverted cowardice of a freak, you hear me?!"

Before he can answer, a guard bangs on the door. "Ah," Tristan smirked. "It seems Sid is done already. I wonder how much she'll scream without you around to hear her?" He chuckles and lets the guards in to unbind her. "Don't worry, my dear, you won't have too long to think about that. We're going to have some fun of our own..."

As the straps are removed Annabel snatches her chance. Pulse racing, her body runs on the fuel of stale rage, she head buts one man and knees another in the groin. She hears the wet crunch of his nose breaking and the deep winded yelp and for a second she is free. Instinctively she rushes at Tristan.

Numerous hands grapple at her, she lashes out, throwing elbows and kicks. Outnumbered and overwhelmed she's soon forced to yield. She was so damn close! She spits fresh blood at Tristan, getting him square in the eye as she is forced down onto her knees in front of him to be re bound.

Growling, he wipes his face and slaps her – once, twice, three times, for good measure. The feisty sluts refuse to learn, no matter how many times he tries to teach them manners. The guards chain her hand and foot, to drag her down the hall. He follows, sweeping into the next dungeon chamber in time to watch them secure her. The shackles on her wrists are attached to a hook dangling from the ceiling; while her ankle chains are bolted to a loop in the floor. There's not enough slack to fight back, but there's plenty room to squirm.

Red face stinging Annabel tugs at the ceiling, the anchor flaring as she pulls, trying to use her weight against the iron, all it does however is hurt her mangled hand. Cursing, blood dribbles down her chin which she spits at one of the guards.

"You _are_ mine, now. Your little harlot isn't here to distract you. But I expect the rest of my guards are finding her very distracting, indeed..." he smirks, walking around behind her to run rough fingers down the burn on her back.

Annabel hisses when he touches the burn. The hiss grows into a roaring scream of pure fury. Slamming her wrists down she tries to slip loose. The thought of those men with their hands on Kelandris is enough to make her want to snap off her own to get free.

"No!" she snarls like a snared beast. "When I get out...I swear by the Maker and Holy Andraste...you will suffer— you..." her mind is such a mess she can't form a decent threat.

 

A few feet below them, unknown to her, Kelandris is quietly wallowing in despair, hearing their voices through the door. The heavy wood muffles most of the words, but she recognizes Annabel's anger and Tristan's smug satisfaction. _Don't believe anything he tells you,_ she thought, as if she could somehow get Annabel to hear through strength of will alone, _I’m here. I love you._

Kelandris flinches when her lover shrieks. What were they doing to her?! She flings herself at the door again, heedless of the jagged surface, yelling with pain and desperation, although her struggles go unnoticed above.

 

Tristan chuckles nastily and nips at Annabel’s bare shoulder playfully. "Now, now, there's no need to panic. All you have to do to help her is swear to be mine... Sid, be a gentleman and give her something else to focus on while she considers."

"In your dreams..." she sneers. Sid moves around in front of her, armed with a pair of heavy pincers, already glowing cherry-red. Her eyes catch the pincers and she promptly shuts them rather than give away her dread. Locking her jaw, she bites down hard, determined to not scream.

Sid starts with the underside of her arm, just above the elbow, taking a pinch of flesh in the heated metal jaws he squeezes it hard. Instinctively her arm tries to jerk away. Teeth firmly locked, her face scrunches while the humming of the anchor voices the pain she refuses to. She would _not_ let Kelandris down again.

Tristan scowls, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back. "Come now, whore, where's all your spirit gone?"

"It's with Kelandris!" She growls back cruelly, hoping to dent his ego. Sid moves a few inches further up her arm and grabs her again, the flesh immediately bruising and reddening around the cruel implement. Jaw locked shut her throat still makes a high-pitched whimper. She tries to focus on anything other than sheer burning pain, her eyes fill and stubbornly she holds back the tears.

Growling, Tristan twists her hair harshly. "I _will_ have you scream again, you filthy tramp!" Apparently responding to his master's anger, the torturer abandons her and moves out of sight.

Annabel smirks with pride at his tone – seems she'd struck a nerve after all. "You know who I do scream for..." she hushes her voice. "Kelandris and Cullen- I've screamed their names every damn night and will do again, and again—" She stops, observing Sid carefully before clamping down her teeth.

He’s returned with a different pair of pliers, blunter and hotter still. His next target is somewhere more sensitive: just below her navel. When burning metal crushes flesh she can't help but cry out through pursed lips but she does not scream. He holds the metal there for longer, this time, twisting slowly.

"Oh, I'm sure you will, when you cry to them for mercy," snarls Tristan. "But your bitch and whatever dog you've ensnared can't help you now... Maybe I should've sent her to the kennels instead of the barracks. Maybe that's where we'll go next – would you like to watch your dear Lady Kelandris get torn apart by my hounds? Or perhaps they'll just make her a bitch in truth."

"Won't you miss your position in the pack?" Sneers Annabel her old self emerging in a bitter and twisted form.

He ignores her, watching hungrily as Sid drags the glowing tip of his pliers slowly up the centre of her torso. They pause beneath her breasts, before nipping sharply at the sensitive underside of one. She hisses and her stomach muscles contract, ill prepared for the scorching metal. She exclaims in pain, her eyes rolling back, body trembling with the need to scream as the burning builds.

"The way you're talking back makes me think you never want to see her again," he snaps. Sid continues his grisly work, heedless of the chatter, taking another pinch of her breast between the cruel head of his pliers.

At his comment fear snatches her heart and stops it. However, something of the fighter in her core resounds deeper. "You'll do what your sick mind wants. I offered myself to you and you blew it! I'll make no offer again, not until I _know_ she's safe—" she is cut off by pain and curses profanity. She's had enough and hot tears slip down her cheeks. She knows she can't hold herself back much longer.

"I don't need you to offer," Tristan growls. With a flick of his tongue, he catches one of her tears, and follows the trail of salt water up the side of her face in a long lick. She twists her face away at the press of his tongue which sends a pulse of disgust through her.

"How many times must I repeat myself? You’re mine. I can simply take what I want!" When Sid releases her breast, Tristan snakes a hand around her front to grope the abused flesh. She muffles a cry and doesn't dare open her mouth, fearing the sounds that would come out.

His lackey circles them once again, pausing to exchange his cooling pliers with the freshly-reheated pair. Back at her front, he seizes her knee with one rough hand and tugs outwards, baring the top of her leg. The blazing metal grabs a sliver of her inner thigh, and stays there, held in an unyielding grip. The pain scorches through, its pitch and intensity unyielding, she jerks away and a deafening scream rips from her.

 

Below, Kelandris howls into her gag at the scream, writhing uselessly. She's completely, totally powerless. All she can do is listen, and imagine the horrible things that bastard must be doing to draw such a noise from her lover's lips. It's worse than any torment they could have inflicted. _No! Annabel, love, be strong…!_

 

Tristan's lips curl in a twisted grin. "That's more like it." He lets go of her hair to rake his fingernails down her chest and stomach, scraping the freshly burned skin viciously. Pulling her hips back hard into his, he grinds against her rear, letting her know in the most vulgar way just how much he's enjoying her pain.

She begins sobbing, the fight smothered by overwhelming pain, disgust and despair. The anchor is flashing wildly as she pulls against the restraints, feeling him hard against her back and his dirty little fingers touching her makes her release a garbled noise of desperation. His hand creeps lower still. "I wonder, how loud will you scream if we burn your dirty little nub right off your—"  
  
That's when the door slams open, the resounding _bang_ all but drowned out by a primal, furious roar. She doesn't even open her eyes at the slam, she’s too lost to pain – but the thunder of that roar... A lion's roar. The vibration of the noise, the power, lights a spark which causes her breath to catch in her throat. It couldn't be? Slowly she inches open one eye, almost not daring to hope and whispers one word: "Cullen?"

Eyes _blazing_ , Cullen meets her gaze briefly then barrels across the room to rip Sid away from her. The torturer slumps to the floor, convulsing around sword wound through his gut.

Tristan stumbles back from her as the Commander rounds on him.  "You're their latest toy? Listen, you don't understand, those two sluts are leading you on—" he breaks off, choking, as he's slammed against the wall with Cullen's fist wrapped around his throat.

"If you _ever_ speak about them like that again," he snarls, the tip of his blade jammed against the sick bastards chest. "I will personally rip out your tongue."

Annabel is fighting wildly to break free, as if this chance might be ripped away from her at any moment; blood makes the chains slippery but she can't get loose. Another angry voice is snapping commands in a harsh Nevarran accent – Cassandra demanding her release – but still she flails. There's a soft familiar voice in her head, saying something about hope and hurt, light and lions... As she starts to calm her mind returns to her. "Kelandris!" She shouts. "They have Kelandris! Cullen - please!"

Without hesitation Cullen solidly punches Tristan in the jaw, knocking him out cold: there's too much going on to deal with the scum properly. "Someone take this— this— just lock him up!" He barks. A soldier scurries over to comply, and he turns to Annabel. Someone has found the keys to her chains and Cassandra is busy working on the shackles while trying to calm her.

He catches her as she's released. "I know," he blurts. "Where did they take her? Is she alright? Are _you_ alright? Maker, of course you're not... Maker's breath, _Annabel_ , I was so worried— it's alright, you're safe, we'll get you both out of here..." he trails off to smother her in his embrace.

Relief washes her from head to toe. She buries her face deep into his fur mantle while her intact fingers clutch so tight her knuckles turn white. She takes a selfish moment to be held and just listen to his voice, savour his scent, his warmth. Too soon, she pulls away to meet his gaze desperately, although her hands don't let go. "Go, find her… The guards—" she chokes on the words. "The guards, the men, they have her. Go!" She shoves him away feebly.

Cullen frowns, not letting go, voice low and urgent. "We swept the barracks and found nothing. If they had her there, they don't now..." He hesitates, torn between joining the hunt or helping the woman in front of him. Choosing between his two loves is more than difficult, it's _agonizing_. "Cassandra! Can you lead a search? Find the Inquisitor. Tear the place apart!"

"No..." Annabel shakes her head, not in denial but disbelief. "You're wrong, she's there, she has to be! You have to—" She tries to push him away but she can see from the look on his face that's not going to happen. What had they done with her love? _To_ her? She shakes her head again, her muddled mind frantically searching for a clue. "Him!" Abruptly she hisses turning to the unconscious Lord. "That son of bitch! He knows—" Growling, she lashes out at the arms that hold her. Determined to break free, she pants. "Let go!"

"Love— Annabel, stop! Look at me!" Cullen nearly drops her as she thrashes; he's trying desperately not to hurt her any further. "I want to find her just as much as you. But I love you, too, and so does Kelandris. I'm not waking that bastard up until I know you're safe. The men will look for her. You know that's what she'd want, too."

She’s crying again without even realising. She is so sick of being restrained that she fights until his calm voice soothes her. If it had been anyone else she would have struggled on, spat and cursed. She meets his warm gaze with one of grateful devotion. "I love you to," her eyes then narrow. "But I'm not leaving without her. I won't... I can't...please..." Something breaks down inside her. Sick with worry and grief, she clings to him, still begging, sobbing intangible woes between shaky breaths.

 

In the darkness, underneath them, Kelandris screams in frustration. The murmur of voices above her is maddening. Again and again, she'd tried to force a sound through her gag but it's useless. Her throat is too raw, her body too weak… She'd even resorted to banging on the ceiling in a moment of quiet. Surely _someone_ would hear _something_?! All she gained was yet more pain. She trembled, bleeding and beyond exhausted. She was so close – to freedom, to Annabel, to _Cullen_ – and they had _no fucking idea_ …

Worst of all, she could hear her lover sobbing her name. Suffering on her behalf. She was trapped here, blind and helpless. Tears slipped down her cheeks, vanishing into her matted hair. There was nothing she could do but pray.

 

In the room above, Cullen holds Annabel gently as she sobs into his shoulder, wrapped in a blanket. Cassandra having taken half the men to search the rest of the dungeon. He'd glanced in some of the cells as they'd charged in; glimpses of their contents had been more than enough to leave him shaking with fury. There'd been catacombs beneath the Gallows that had looked something like this, used by some of his so-called brothers to extract confessions from suspected maleficar – or, in other words, to torture the mages they were supposed to be protecting. But the equipment there had been smuggled in; not even Meredith had been brazen enough to openly build and stock a hall of torment such as this.

The thought of his lovers being held here left him sick to his stomach. He'd heard Annabel scream, the moment before he'd bashed in the door, and the sound had all but broken him. And both his ladies had been languishing for days – what horrors had they experienced? Was Kelandris still trapped somewhere, suffering? Blessed Andraste, they _had_ to find her…

“Here, she's here, but he can't _hear!”_

Cullen nearly leaps out of his skin when Cole appears in the middle of the room, already babbling. “Waiting, wanting, weeping. Desperate and despairing in the dark, skin scraping on stone; too tight, too much... Caged, caught, Cullen! Knew you'd come, our love, our lion – get me out! I'm here but no one hears— Get me out, get me out, get me _out_ —!” His hat flopped as he looked around wildly. “I can hear! Where are you, Kelandris?! There's too much pain to pinpoint hers – I can tell she's close, but it's not enough!”

Clutching her blanket over her chest Annabel spins at Cole. She's so pleased to see the boy she could kiss him. If he weren't so far and her feet so sore. “She's alive!” With one hand she holds onto Cullen for support and he wraps an arm around her, staring at the spirit, chagrin and relief mingling in his expression.

“Alive, and in pain…” Cullen murmurs, brows furrowed.

Trying to stand on her injured feet Annabel hisses in pain, her trembling legs refuse to bear her weight, and she sinks to her knees. Her biggest fear had melted, the fear that had driven her near insane - that Kelandris lay mutilated and stone cold somewhere. Something she hadn't fully let herself feel until its burden was now gone. "Cole....where is she? What do you need- Cole please..."

"There's so much hurt soaked into the stones. Memories that catch fear and bounce it back, distorted, echoes of a scream in distant dungeon halls— She's hurting, but so is everyone else. It's muddled, and you and Cullen are so loud...so bright..." He glances up at her apologetically. "If everyone leaves I think I can find her. You wouldn't have to go far!" He adds hastily, sensing their reactions to that idea.

Annabel rubs at the stone under palm as he speaks. She didn't mean to be loud, she didn't really understand, but she knew he was their best hope. "Ok," she says, softly with a nod. "Just find her." She doesn't want to admit she can't stand by herself never mind leave. Her broken pride however gives way to her love for Kelandris and she pitifully asks Cullen to help her up.

Without hesitation, Cullen scoops her up in his arms, eyes widening in horror as he sees the state of her feet. "Maker..." he murmurs again, and then glances around at the assembled soldiers. "Everyone out! Back to the courtyard. Bring the scum. And alert the healers!"

When the tromp of footsteps starts to fade, Kelandris panics. _No. No no no, don't leave me here!_ Another scream; another wave of pain as she forces her weary body to respond; another set of bloody punctures marring her abused flesh. She was going to die here, bleeding out or wasting away. She'd never see Annabel or Cullen again. They'd find her broken corpse, stuffed in this _fucking_ hole, and it would break both their hearts. One final failure…

“Kelandris?”

At first, she thinks she's hallucinating the quiet voice. It's right above her, barely loud enough to filter through the wooden door.

“Alone and afraid; now my own mind is abandoning me, too— No! I'm here, I'm real. I'll get you out!”

_…Cole?_

“Yes!” Metal scrapes above her, and she's overwhelmed by a crushing tide of relief. Relief that turns back to panic when the noises fall silent.

“I can't pull the nails out with a knife. I'll tell the others! They'll be able to help, it will be okay—”

_Cullen! Please, tell him, bring him – don't let me stay down here…!_

“Yes. He wants you as much as you want him – we'll be back soon, don't worry!”

And then there was silence.

 

 

When the spirit-boy popped up suddenly in the courtyard Cullen lunged to his feet. “Where is she?”

“They put her in the floor and nailed it shut! I tried to pry it loose myself, but my daggers are meant to work on people, not nails.”

"They did _what?!_ " he exclaims. He can see Cole is going to answer and shakes his head. "Where? Take me to her, now." He spins pointing one of his men. "You, fetch a crowbar," he turns to point at two more and a healer. "All of you - with me."  He barks already pressing Cole forwards.

When he's returned to the same cell he scowls, eyes scanning the ground until he see's the door. That bastard. She had been under his feet the entire time, under Annabel. He drops to his knees, pressing a palm to the wood. Was that a thump under his hand? "Kelandris?! We're here. Just hold on." A soldier passes him the crowbar, and he wastes no time prying out the nails. His men haul open the door; one shouts in pain, discovering the spiked underside. And below him... _By the Holy Andraste – what had they done to her?_ “It's okay,” he murmurs, and reaches for his love.

The sound of Cullen's voice is the most beautiful thing she has ever heard. The screeching metal as he unsealed her prison is a very close second. Light floods in, and she flinches, squinting. Above her, though, her Commander kneels, already reaching for her, the torchlight framing his face like a halo. She whimpers when he touches her, and again when he lifts her free – she's too far gone to care that she sounds small and pathetic. Her gag falls away as someone cuts the ropes binding her; familiar, gentle fingers brush her lips. “I'm here,” her lover says, “You're safe.”

“Cullen…” she breathes his name. A hand touches the back of her neck, and she tenses until the gentle glow of healing magic engulfs her. It eases her suffering, just a little – it's less pain than she's felt in days. Shuddering, she sobs in sweet relief before regaining herself a little. “Annabel?”

“Outside. She's safe and worried – I'll take you to her.”

“N-no, wait—” Kelandris clutches at Cullen, weeping into his mantle. All her stoicism had evaporated in that cell – but their lady would need reassurance, not more fear. “Can't let her s-see me like this. Need to be strong for her – I screamed, once, and it n-nearly broke her, I swore I wouldn't — wouldn't let her down again!”

Cullen makes a pained noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, Kelandris… You're not letting anyone down. I think Annabel would be more upset _not_ seeing you.”

“I can't!” She wails, “Can't hurt her with my pain, Cullen, please, I'm not— I'm not strong enough, I'll fail her again…!”

“You've never failed her, love! You were – you were _tortured_ , of course you're in pain. I can go talk to her; I know she wants to see you again, more than anything, but if it would help I can—”

“Don't leave me!” Kelandris clings to him like an anchor in a hurricane, her torrent of words becoming more incoherent as she sobs. “I know, I'm sorry, c-can't— don't go, not again, can't be alone again… She n-needs you, too, I'm sorry, I’m so – s-selfish, I can't…”

“Shhh…” he holds her as tight as he dares stroking her hair softly. Tears have pricked in his own eyes which he forces back with sheer determination. “You're not selfish…” he gently kisses her head. “I'm here,” he doesn’t know what good his words will do but he continues on. “You don't have to be strong, not for me, not for her, not for anyone right now. It's going to be alright.”

Kelandris shakes her head. She can barely form words through the pain and distress, but still, she chokes out, “Annabel. Hurting, f-for me. Can't— can’t be w-weak for her…”

He rocks her gently and goes to speak but is interrupted by light padded footsteps

“You don’t understand...” said Annabel, being propped up by Dorain as they enter tentatively.

Cullen shots the mage a glare, she should not be here and Dorian damn well knows it. Her feet have been heavily bandaged, and the anchor now glows through linen wraps. She winces, but sneaks closer leaning wearily on Dorian who appears rather perturbed.

“I’m sorry,” he states. “But in my defence, she was rather adamant and trying to sedate her...Well let’s just say the healers now need some healing themselves. In fact, I’ve seen dragons display less fury,” he pauses to help carefully lower her to the ground. “I don’t know how you cope,” he murmurs under his breath.

Cullen’s glare slowly fades, he should’ve expected as much from Annabel, besides this was not the time for anger.

Ignoring the men's exchange Annabel edges closer on her knees, eyes fixed on Kelandris. “You don’t see, do you? It doesn’t matter how strong you are…you, both of you, are my weakness.”

An anguished noise escapes Kelandris. "Never want... to cause you pain..."

Shaking her head Annabel frowns. "It doesn't work like that," her eyes flick to Cullen for support briefly then return. One hand reaching out she touches her hip, one of the few places devoid of marks. "You think I wanted to hurt you? Cause you pain..?"

Cullen shifts very carefully, extracting an arm to wrap around Annabel's shoulders. Kelandris trembles with longing at her touch, finally cracking open an eye to peek out through the fur of his cloak. She wants so badly to be comforted, but isn't certain she deserves it. "No," she whispers, "I know you didn't..."

Tears slip down Annabel's face silently. "Nothing _you_ did hurt me, you hear me? He, that," her lips curl in disgust. "That thing, he did it, he caused OUR pain. When you cried out and when you didn't, when you fought back and when you couldn't… every second of it hurt us both the same. Just because I shout louder doesn't mean I suffer more...or that I'm _weak_. You know that. I know you do. You don't have to be strong for me, I've never needed that, you just have to love me, for me, that's what I need. Ok?"

"Always," Kelandris grits out. She lurches across Cullen's lap to rest her head in the crook of Annabel's shoulder. " _Always_ , Annabel," she murmurs in her ear.

"Good, because I love you," she whispers back, holding her as best she can. She catches the soft smile in Cullen's face and beams.  "And we _both_ love you."

Kelandris sobs once more, a wracking release of pent-up fear, curling as close as she can to both her lovers. After a minute of catharsis, with Cullen's arm around her waist and Annabel's lips in her hair, her crying eases, subsiding into occasional shudders. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and looks up at them both, wincing with the effort. "I would very much like to go outside," she mumbles hoarsely, "And pass out in the fresh air."

"A fine plan," states Cullen with a half-smile, rising and helping to drag them both up.

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

Cullen wakes, startled, reaching instinctively for his sword hilt. Something's trapped his arms— but no, he's tucked up in his own bed; the weight on his limbs comes from his lovers, pressed warm and soft against his side. Annabel's hand has fallen heavily across his face. He nudges it off with his nose – she's managed to thump him in her sleep. Again. Well, at least he knew what had woken him.

He winces as she stirs and mutters something, nuzzling into his arm. He prays he hasn't woken her. They’d been back for weeks now, but still struggled to sleep. Annabel had admitted awful night terrors and refused to sleep alone; he’d even noticed she had taken to falling asleep in war room meetings, seemingly comforted by the company around her. No one complained. Kelandris was more stoic, but the heavy circles under her eyes didn't lie. She never woke him in the night, but he almost wished she would – he felt her trembling whenever Annabel interrupted his sleep; he suspected she spent most nights lying awake.

“She punched you again, didn’t she?” comes a whisper in the darkness – Kelandris, lending weight to his concerns.

Cullen turns his head, finds her gaze – her eyes glimmer up at him in the light of a single lit candle, kept on the bedside table at her insistence. He gives her a soft, reassuring smile. “It’s fine,” he breathes, stroking her hair. “I don't mind.”

Her hand creeps across his chest to clasp Annabel's. “Mmm… it's a wonder you're not sick of us…” she mutters. “Can you even remember the last time you got a good night's rest?”

He cocks an eyebrow, heart aching for them both even as he's morbidly amused by the irony. “Can you?”

A faint huff, almost a laugh. “Fair.” She snuggles closer with a sigh, nuzzling his chest; he kisses the top of her head, careful not to jostle Annabel.

“I'm here, love. Try to get some more sleep.”

“I would,” quips Annabel from his other side. “But somebody keeps talking...”

Now Kelandris smiles faintly, and Cullen chuckles, squeezing them both gently. They'd both been through so much… he's beyond grateful for the feel of them against him, their delicate breathing and the sweet warm aroma of them, mixing with his. Two pairs of eyes gaze up at him, weary and worn – but full of love, despite everything. He relishes the moment, kisses them both on the head in turn… He just hopes they know what they mean to him.

“I love you both so much,” he whispers. Twin murmurs respond in kind. His ladies aren't alright, not yet – but they're getting better, gradually. Given time, he thinks, and plenty of affection... they would be. And he would be there for them both, every step of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy the happy ending - we couldn't have Cullen sad after all.  
> Kudos and comments welcome!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments welcomed :) Not expecting much 'love' for this as it is different to our ‘normal’ writing and gets darker as it goes along… *evil cackle*


End file.
